


Polonaise No. 6

by pikachumaniac



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, M/M, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: “Hmm.” That slight hum demonstrates an almighty ability to send all the blood in his body down to a very specific point, but it’s nothing compared to when wine-red lips curl into a smile. “So then why are you here? A profile piece seems to be so beneath you, especially a profile about afigure skater.”In which James Bond is a sports reporter who doesn’t believe that figure skating is a sport, Q is a figure skater who doesn’t give interviews, and yet somehow both get exactly what they need most.





	1. Short Program

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megaikemen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megaikemen/gifts).



> Written for the 2016-2017 00Q Reverse Big Bang. Many thanks to megaikemen for the lovely art that was the inspiration for this story. It has unfortunately been years since I’ve watched figure skating (I used to watch it obsessively, but the change in scoring system eventually drove me away), but I couldn’t pass up the chance to write a fic based on this gorgeous art.
> 
> At the end of the story, I’ve included some figure skating routines that I watched repeatedly while writing this fic. While the video quality isn’t the best (the most recent is from 2004), these are all performances that I remember dearly.

      When James Bond is handed his newest assignment, he takes one look at the target’s photograph and snaps, “You must be _joking_.”

      “And when have I ever joked about anything?” is the icy response. She rather has a point; Olivia Mansfield is known for many things (intelligence, ingenuity, and the ability to ruthlessly calculate the value of any story or person to the continued success of the paper), but a sense of humor is certainly not one of them. But then that means she is actually being _serious_ about giving him this assignment, which is about as horrifying a thought as Mansfield cracking a smile.

      He glares at her. “You seriously expect me to write a profile piece on a _figure skater_?”

      The editor-in-chief finally deigns to look up at him. “I expect you to do your job, Bond. And last I checked, your job is this paper’s sports journalist.”

      Clearly Mansfield is having some difficulties understanding the problem here, so James decides to simplify the matter. “Figure skating is hardly a sport.”

      “And some people would suggest that writing about sports is hardly journalism, yet we keep you on the payroll.”

      In the interest of moving the conversation along, James generously decides not to point out that the ad revenue from the sports section outstrips that of the rest of the paper combined. “That still doesn’t explain why you want _me_ to write this story. If all you want is a profile, any extern with a mobile and half a brain could write this story.”

      “Perhaps, if they could actually get him to talk to them,” Mansfield replies. “Quentin Boothroyd doesn’t give interviews, unless you count the time a six-year old girl asked him what his favorite color was.”

      James raises an eyebrow at that; in his experience, most people jumped at the opportunity to talk about their lives in agonizing detail, and the few who didn’t either had something to hide or were too full of themselves to bother with the press. It’s probably too much to hope for the former, seeing how they _are_ talking about a figure skater, but at least there seems to be a reason behind Mansfield’s decision to give him this assignment… aside from sheer sadism, anyway. “And you think I can get him to talk.”

      “You do seem to have a knack for it.” The editor-in-chief conveniently leaves out the fact that his ability to get reluctant people to talk has also resulted in a few (twenty-three, give or take) lawsuits being filed against the paper, and not to mention a few upset agents calling on behalf of clients who were a bit irate about his sleeping with their wives and mistresses. To her credit, Mansfield had always stood by her erstwhile reporter, even when legal counsel had begged her to cut him loose. Not that James is foolish enough to think her decision had anything to with sentiment; as many headaches as he brought, James also produced something invaluable: results.

      That said, he’s not sure exactly how Mansfield expects him to get results this time around. It’s not like he can sleep with Boothroyd’s wife.

      “Bond.” There’s an edge to Mansfield’s voice that she rarely uses, mostly because she doesn’t need to in order to make people listen to her. And while James has never been very good at listening, even he acknowledges that when she uses that tone, it’s time for him to start. “I am well aware of your low opinion of the sport. But while you might not care for the sport, a lot of people now do, and most of that has to do with Boothroyd. He’s the first British figure skater to win the European Championships in over twenty years, and many think he can win the World Championships next month. The public wants to know more about him, and getting an interview or any type of story from him will go a long ways for this paper. And you are just as aware as I am that this paper can use that, seeing how it, like every other paper out there, is struggling to survive.”

      He does. He knows that as good as Mansfield is at this, there are a lot of people who question her leadership, question her ability to adapt to the rapidly changing world where bloggers could be considered journalists and stories had to fit in 140 characters or less to keep the attention of the public. True journalism, the kind he still believes in, is a dying breed, and they both know there is little that they can do to stop it.

      Still, he supposes that if it will hold off the inevitable for just a bit longer, he’ll try to interview this bloody figure skater.

      “I’ll get you the story,” he says, getting to his feet. And as he leaves her office, all he can do is hope there won’t be any damn sequins involved.

* * *

      Tracking Boothroyd down is not as difficult as he had thought it might be. And by not difficult, he means that he only has to conduct two illegal searches, which leads him not to the man himself but to his agent.

      To call Eve Moneypenny a lovely woman would be to do her a disservice; she is striking, to say the least. James would very much like to get to know her better, but he doesn’t get much of a chance. Instead, she opens the door and quirks an eyebrow, apparently not the least bit thrown-off by the unwelcome intruder in her office.

      “Mr. Bond, is it?” she asks as she shuts the door. Just as she was not surprised by his presence, he is not surprised that she recognizes him; as an agent, it’d be her job to know all of the local reporters (all of the local troublemakers). “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

      There’s more than a hint of sarcasm to the question, but James figures it could be worse, considering how he has just let himself into her office (breaking and entering is such an ugly phrase). “Miss Moneypenny,” he greets with his most charming smile. It’s a smile that has caused more than a few women to swoon into his arms, but Moneypenny just watches him, hands on her hips. “I’m looking for a client of yours.”

      “Let me guess. You’re looking for Quentin Boothroyd,” she lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re wasting your time, I’m afraid. As you’ve undoubtedly heard, Q doesn’t give interviews.”

      “I have heard that,” he admits. “But I was rather hoping for an opportunity to change his mind.”

      Moneypenny laughs dryly, shaking her head as if she pities him his misplaced optimism. “He doesn’t change his mind. Not on this, anyway. I’ve tried to get him to do just one interview, if only to get you vultures, no offense-” (he can tell from her half-smile that she doesn’t really mean the apology) “-to back off. And so far, I can’t really see you succeeding where so many others have failed.”

      He grins conspiratorially. “But how will we find out if I don’t even get to try?”

      A soft chuckle, as Moneypenny draws close, so close that just one more step and she could straddle him. She doesn’t, much to his dismay, instead whispering, “It seems you live up to your reputation, Mr. Bond.”

      “And what reputation is that?”

      “Of being quite the charmer.” It quickly becomes clear that he’s not the only one who can live up to that reputation as she closes what little distance they have left, leaning forward so near that he finds himself closing his eyes so that he can feel the whisper of her breath on his cheek. “And not to mention, quite the _heartbreaker_.”

      In the instant it takes to open his eyes, she’s already drawn away and is glaring down at him, expression hard. “Which is precisely why I’m not letting you anywhere near him. He has enough to worry about without you hounding him. So with that, will you be seeing yourself out, or would you prefer if I call security to toss you out on your sorry arse?”

      He gets the message loud and clear. But seeing how he’s never been a very good listener, before she can return with security, he ransacks her office, finds Boothroyd’s practice schedule, and escapes through the window.

* * *

      James makes it to the ice rink without incident, which is a pleasant surprise given that his short interaction with Moneypenny made him certain that she is the type of person to have a team of assassins at her disposal (as well as the disposition to dispatch them at will). But rather than find himself being creatively tortured by a group of thugs, he steps into the building and lets the door swing shut behind him.

      The first thing he notices is how quiet it is. It is not at all what he is expecting. Every ice rink he has ever come close to was full of screaming children, and while he doubts a world-class figure skater would ever be in such an environment, it’s hard to separate that expectation from his current situation. But then, expectations never seem to be able to live up to reality, as he quickly discovers when he walks from the dim hallway into the blinding white of the ice rink, and finds himself losing his breath.

      It quickly becomes clear that there is not a screaming child in sight. Instead, there is only a single person simply clad in black leggings and a white top, gliding across the ice. The sound of the blade edge against the ice echoes through the empty rink, drawing all of the attention (and rightfully so) to the man as he enters a jump, spinning so fast that James is still processing the first revolution when he lands with a poise that should not be possible on such a thin piece of metal.

      But it doesn’t end there, of course. As James draws closer and closer, utterly entranced by the vision before him, the man quickly transitions into a spin, twisting into positions that by all rights should have been awkward but instead, are elegant and more than a bit mesmerizing. Through it all, he never slows, the speed building and building and _building_ until he is almost a blur.

      It’s nothing like James thought he would be dealing with when Mansfield had saddled him with this assignment, namely frippery and sequins. Yes, she had provided him with a few photos, from which he could tell that his target was reasonably attractive. But this… this is something else entirely. How to put this in words, as the man comes out of the spin? By all rights the man should be suffering the effects of such dizzying speeds, but rather than fall over, as he would be so justified in doing, he moves smoothly across the ice. And maybe he’s just indulging in a quiet moment to catch his breath, but even in this the man is affecting. James doesn’t know how that is; the man is not doing anything special, not as far as he can tell. But he knows without a doubt that if the entire world was here, not one person could take their eyes off of the lone figure on the ice. He is so caught up in the moment that it takes an embarrassingly long moment to realize that the man has stopped, and is staring right at him.

      He’s not the only one staring.

      Needless to say, the blurry photos of Boothroyd fail to do the man any justice, although in all fairness perhaps nothing could. James has, in his illustrious career, met (and slept with) many beautiful people, but right now, all he can think is that “beautiful” seems a most inadequate word to describe the man before him. And yet it is the only one that comes to mind at the moment, so wrapped up that he is in both the performer and the performance itself. Everything about Boothroyd is so striking that even the way he blinks a bit owlishly at James is ridiculously attractive.

      “Can I help you?” Boothroyd asks, taking the initiative because clearly James is in no position to do so. Even now, all he can think about is how of course the man has a voice to match everything else; some people might have considered it unfair for a single person to be so blessed, but he is more than happy to stand back and appreciate it.

      He can’t appreciate it for long, of course. Boothroyd’s surprise is steadily giving way to impatience at his slack-jawed silence, and seeing how he doesn’t actually want the man to think an idiot, he clears his throat and says with an impressive casualness, “That depends on you, Mr. Boothroyd.”

      Boothroyd blinks again, before his bright green eyes narrow in recognition. “James Bond, I take it,” he says icily. “Eve mentioned that you would be stopping by.”

      Judging from his tone, James doubts that Moneypenny had put it so delicately. “Seeing how you stuck around, does this mean you’re open to an interview?”

      The expression he’s rewarded with is a familiar one; it’s a cross between disbelief and outrage at his audacity, tempered nicely by a grudging admiration. As long as there is some of the latter, James knows he still has a chance. “Perhaps I wanted to personally see your expression when security dragged you off.”

      James grins at the wry threat. “So you wanted to see me then?”

      “Far from the point,” is the dry response, although unlike his agent, Boothroyd has yet to act upon the threat. “I suppose it’s not a surprise that you missed it, given that you clearly have a very high regard for yourself.”

      “You make that sound like the regard is not deserved.”

      Boothroyd laughs, “Well, it depends on who you are talking to. Given the stories you have written, there may be quite a few athletes out there who would like to take a bat to your head.”

      The implication is clear, but James decides to focus on what is important. “So you’ve read my articles.”

      A sigh. “Again, not the point. But at the risk of inflating your massive ego any further, yes, I have. Excellent work with that Sciarra piece last year. I suppose fixing matches would explain how he was able to afford such a luxurious lifestyle, even for a football manager.”

      He remembers that story fondly, and feels a bit ridiculously pleased – almost like a little schoolboy – that Boothroyd appreciates it too. “I nearly lost my job over that one when he threatened to ban the paper from every football match unless a retraction was published.”

      “Understandable; he was a powerful man,” the other man acknowledges, tilting his head ever so slightly to get a better look at him. “I am surprised you got away with it.”

      He was too, honestly, but he’s not about to admit that. “It was a mutually beneficial decision.”

      “Was it really?” Boothroyd asks, the surprise clearly feigned. “Even though you make a habit of annoying powerful people?”

      “Not a habit, so much as an unexpected bonus of the job,” he grins.

      This earns him an appreciative laugh. “You must be a real troublemaker. I am surprised you still have a job at all. It must be nice, having an editor who allows you to actually investigate a controversy, rather than just describe what everyone already knows.”

      “It has its moments.” Truthfully, James doesn’t know of anyone who actually thinks it is nice to have Mansfield as their editor, due to their sheer terror of her. Still, he supposes Boothroyd has a point. As much grief as she gives him, Mansfield may be the only one who lets him get away with what he wants, and what he wants is to write stories that actually challenge his skills and abilities. Others may be content with write-ups of events and punching in the scores, but his true interest lies in the twists and turns behind the scenes, where people are revealed for what they really are. It’s not an easy task, given that those who most need to be exposed are often the ones who have the most power to shut down a story, but one that he revels in nevertheless.

      “Hmm.” That slight hum demonstrates an almighty ability to send all the blood in his body down to a very specific point, but it’s nothing compared to when wine-red lips curl into a smile. “So then why are you here? A profile piece seems to be so beneath you, especially a profile about a _figure skater_.”

      There’s no question that Boothroyd is privy to his attitude towards the sport (or rather, the _non_ -sport). And only a few minutes earlier, James would have been in complete agreement with that assessment. But no thinking person could come away from watching what he had and still be so certain, and James is enough of a man to realize that he may need to… reassess his opinion. “Perhaps I came to see what all the fuss was about.”

      “You came because you had to,” Boothroyd replies promptly, clearly unconvinced that he is bearing witness to any change of heart. “But unfortunately for you, I do not have the same obligations. I am sure Eve already informed you that I do not give interviews, and that rule does apply to you as well. You would be better off telling your editor to put you on a different story, perhaps one that suits your talents.” With that, he pivots with far more grace than seems possible on the ice, before glancing back at him. “Good luck, Mr. Bond.”

      James watches him go, mulling over the possibilities. If this was any other story, James would start digging, using his network of sources to learn everything he possibly could about Boothroyd, whether the man liked it or not. If this was any other person, James might very well have taken up the suggestion and asked for a reassignment, seeing how – as had been so aptly pointed out – this assignment is beneath him.

      But then his gaze drops to that very fine arse, and he knows exactly what he needs to do.

* * *

      “What are you still doing here?”

      James likes to think that the exasperated tone is just to cover up that Boothroyd is secretly pleased to see him, although most people would have called him delusional. But James has some experience (and quite a bit of success) with exactly this type of situation, so he responds with a question of his own, “What’s with the glasses? You know that doesn’t actually work.”

      “It works for Superman,” Boothroyd shoots back. “And I believe I’m the one asking the questions.”

      “That’s not exactly how journalism works.”

      “I didn’t think stalking was an integral part of journalism either.”

      “I’m not stalking you,” James says reasonably. “If I was stalking you, I wouldn’t be waiting for you in the open. I would be silently following you around in preparation for kidnapping you and tying you up in a basement.”

      Boothroyd stares at him, incredulous. “Well, thank you for that clarification. It was both enlightening and utterly horrifying.”

      “You’re welcome,” he replies with a grin. “And now that I’ve answered your question, shouldn’t you be answering mine?”

      Boothroyd huffs delicately. “That wasn’t an answer; that was a _deflection_.” And he would know; if he’s really been able to get away without doing a single interview in all this time, the man must be a master of avoidance. “But if it will satisfy your curiosity, I wear glasses because I need them. I only wear contacts when I skate.” A pause, before he adds a bit unnecessarily, “Riveting information for your readers, I know.”

      Both pretty and sharp. James knows at that moment that he’s a lost cause, and so he throws caution to the wind. “Why not use contacts instead? It’s such a shame to hide those pretty eyes of yours.”

      Boothroyd’s mouth is already open, ready for a no doubt devastating retort, before the full weight of what James has just said comes crashing down on him. The silence that follows is long but very telling, especially when a blush starts to creep across pale cheeks. Since the other man is clearly at a loss for words, James decides to be the gentleman and admit, “I was waiting for you to see if I could take you to dinner.”

      “Dinner?” Boothroyd parrots.

      “You do eat, right?” The question is only half-jest; even though he had avoided figure skating for as long as he could, he’s heard the rampant rumors of eating disorders. He also knows that such problems are not limited to just the women.

      “Of course I do,” Boothroyd replies, tone sharp but not as much as it might have been, since he’s still apparently recovering from James’s audacity. “But what makes you think I would want to eat dinner with you?”

      “I’ll pay,” he offers.

      Boothroyd is clearly tempted, but still suspicious. “You mean the paper will pay.”

      “This won’t be for the paper.” Because right now, the story that Mansfield wants him to write is the last thing on his mind, although he certainly wants to get to know this man better. “Anything you want, I swear.”

      If the silence before was long, it lasts an eternity now as Boothroyd bites his lip, the only hint of nerves he has displayed thus far as he considers the offer.

      “Q.” The other man must see the confusion in his expression because Boothroyd quickly elaborates, “If you’re going to take me out, I prefer to be called Q.”

      “Q,” he repeats, lingering over the letter. He grins. “I like it.”

      “Well, obviously that’s the only thing that matters,” Q quips, rolling his eyes. Still, he’s not able to hide the remaining blush or his obvious pleasure at James’s attention, although he compensates for it nicely by striding past him like he doesn’t matter in the least, pausing only to ask (or more like, demand), “You said anything I like, correct?”

      For him? “Of course.”

      “Good.” And this time, he receives a smile, and it is positively dazzling. “I know just the place.”

* * *

      “The Place” turns out not to be the most expensive restaurant in London, as James had somewhat feared (not that he personally would have minded, but journalism doesn’t pay _that_ well and he still needs to be able to pay his rent), but a tidy little Indian restaurant that is within walking distance of the rink. Q is clearly a regular, given how enthusiastically they are greeted by the couple who runs the place and quickly escorted to a table in the back corner. The food is excellent and the atmosphere pleasant, but James suspects that the main draw is the all-you-can-eat buffet, as he quickly realizes that Q is – to put it delicately – is a veritable bottomless pit. So far, their conversation has consisted of James regaling him with stories about his most memorable investigations, while Q does his best impression of a human vacuum cleaner.

      “Surely this can’t be that surprising to you,” Q says, after having patiently endured James’s staring as he demolished three heaping plates of food. “You of all people must know how many calories are burned by athletes.”

      “Seeing is different from believing.” That may be an understatement, especially with someone as whippet-thin as Q.

      Q practically inhales the vegetable korma off the plate, although he somehow manages to make even that look a bit more elegant than it otherwise would be. “Perhaps,” the younger man muses, “it’s because you do not think of figure skating as a sport.”

      His response is automatic. “That’s because it’s not.” While insulting Q’s chosen career is probably not the best way of enduring himself to the man, he doubts that lying would be either. Still, he pauses long enough to allow Q an opportunity to respond, but when nothing is forthcoming, he continues, “I’m not saying that it isn’t difficult.” (Not anymore, anyway, not after that demonstration of what Q was capable of.) “But just because something is difficult to do doesn’t make it a sport. For a competitive sport, figure skating is too subjective.”

      He wouldn’t have blamed Q for getting defensive, but instead the other man just looks contemplative. “That’s… surprisingly thoughtful. Although a bit of a strange one, given that the new scoring system was specifically designed to reduce the subjectivity inherent in judging.”

      “And has it been working?”

      Q shrugs, “Opinions differ, but at the very least, it has placed more emphasis on athleticism. Although some people believe that it comes at the cost of the very essence of figure skating.”

      James gets the sense from Q’s tone that one of those people is sitting right in front of him, so he asks, “How so?”

      Q starts to respond, but then stops himself, instead murmuring, “I’m sure you are not interested, seeing how you do not consider figure skating a sport anyway.”

      “But I am interested,” he replies. And surprisingly, he is. Not because of figure skating itself, which he does not care much for, but because it is _Q_. “And this is completely off-the-record, I promise.”

      It quickly becomes clear that Q does not need much prodding on this topic, as he launches into what is clearly a well-versed argument ( _rant_ ), “By focusing on points, it takes the art and creativity out of the sport. People spend more time counting points and pushing themselves technically, rather than concerning themselves with whether a particular move actually works with the music. At a certain point, the programs all become the same because it is no longer about individual expression but what gets the most points, so everyone ends up doing the same thing that everyone else does, and the person who wins just happens to be the one who manages to stay on their feet. Not to mention that certain moves have become lost because they are too easy; a simple, beautiful spiral is not good enough, now one has to contort themselves into hideous but complex positions in order to score more points. It’s becoming more and more challenging for anyone to stand out, in part because very few people can even last through more than a few seasons, what with their pushing themselves to unsustainable lengths in order to get those few extra points, and sometimes one has to wonder if it is even worth it now.”

      Q finally stops to take a breath, allowing James to point out, “You seem to have done fairly well for yourself, from what I’ve heard.”

      It’s a useful technique, steering the conversation back to the person being interviewed. It also has the added bonus of catching Q off-guard, and making him blush that fetching shade of pink again. “Yes, well, I can’t take all the credit,” he demurs, showing off that dependably British ability of self-deprecation. “My coach deserves most of the recognition.”

      Now that it has been brought up, that was something James had been wondering about. “Where is your coach, anyway? Shouldn’t he have been at the rink with you?”

      “He’s out of the country for some personal business.” Q pauses, before adding, “Luckily for you. I have a feeling the two of you would not get along in the least.”

      “I’m certain I can charm him.”

      Q looks positively amused by his apparently misplaced confidence. “I’m more certain that he would try to run you over with a Zamboni machine if he ever met you. Best to keep the two of you apart as long as possible.”

      “Does that mean you are interested in keeping me around?”

      “Well, I suppose that you have proven yourself to be a bit more interesting than I expected,” the figure skater allows generously. “Honestly, I had not expected you to have a reasonable explanation for your dislike of figure skating.”

      “What were you expecting?”

      Q’s smiles wryly. “That you just don’t like sequins very much.”

      James can’t help but laugh at that. “Well, you have to admit that it’s hard to take something seriously when everyone is wearing glitter.”

      “Does this mean you’re not taking me seriously?”

      The answer to that question is easy enough. “To the contrary, I’m taking you _very_ seriously.” Maybe even a little too seriously, if his colleagues were to be asked.  Bill Tanner in particular always remarked that he had a bad habit of falling too hard and too fast, but how quickly he is finding himself falling for Q may have broken even his records. Even recognizing the truth in the managing editors’ remarks, he is completely incapable of changing his course; whether it is Q’s looks, his sharp wit, or just the way he moves across the ice like something not of this earth, James is completely infatuated with the man. And while others might point out that he’s been this way before, with both women and men who some might consider even more attractive than Q, right now in James’s completely objective and unbiased view, there is no one as fascinating as Quentin Boothroyd.

      And just to make things even more interesting, for the second time that day James finds a very attractive person leaning towards him, so close that to call it a cruel tease would be an extreme understatement indeed.

      “If you are taking me so seriously,” Q says, his green eyes bright with open _want_ , “you better be ready to take me to bed.”

      James’s mouth goes completely dry, and he can barely rasp, “Your place or mine?”

* * *

      They end up at James’s.


	2. Free Skate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may or may not be an anime reference in this chapter. :p

      He wakes up alone.

      On a practical level, he knows that he has no right to be too upset. After all, he is usually the one sneaking out in the middle of the night, so it’s only fair that he be left behind for a change. Besides, it’s not as if Q owes him anything, seeing how they had only met the previous night, and only because James had been forced into this assignment by Mansfield. Q is well-within his rights to enjoy the night and leave, yet he still can’t help but feel disappointed by the absence. Last night had been, to put it lightly, bloody _amazing_ , and James still remembers just how glorious Q had looked when stripped of his clothing, all pale skin and lean muscle. He had been rather looking forward to picking up where they had left off, relishing the challenge of once again replacing Q’s imperious orders with shameless begging, but it seems that-

      “Are you still in bed?” As if on cue, the door to his bathroom opens and a certain demanding brat sticks his head through the doorway, along with enough steam to fill a Russian sauna. “It’s already 6:30 a.m., and as I am sure you already know given that you stole my practice schedule, I need to be at the rink by eight.”

      The dark head disappears back into the mist, leaving James staring at where it once occupied. Still, he wouldn’t be where he was today if he hadn’t learned to recover quickly to unexpected (although in this case, pleasant) surprises, so he calls out, “Did you have a pleasant shower? I hope you left enough hot water for the rest of us.”

      “I make no guarantees,” Q replies breezily because he is a cruel, cruel bastard. “Perhaps if you can be bothered to get up at a reasonable hour tomorrow, I will wait for you to shower with me.”

      James immediately sits up, interest perked. (It is not the only thing that is perked right now.) But because he can’t make it too easy for the other man, he asks in as bored a tone as he can manage, “What makes you think you’ll be back?”

      Q wanders back into view, unfortunately fully clothed but still quite delectable. Judging from the quirk of his lips, he is not the least bit fooled by James’s feigned indifference, but he’s willing to play along. “Please, you act as if you have a say in this. I should have warned you that once somebody feeds me, it is very difficult to get rid of me.”

      “Can I quote you on that?”

      “If you do, I’ll have Eve blacklist you from every pub in the country,” Q retorts. “I’ll warn you, she is _very_ capable.”

      He has no doubt about that, based on their brief but memorable meeting. “It’s not nice to threaten someone you slept with before they have had their first cup of coffee.”

      Q’s look of utter disgust is peculiarly adorable. “You drink _coffee_? I may have to rethink whether I’ll be coming back.”

      “I also have tea,” he offers, conveniently leaving out that the tea was a gift from an ex, and that it had lasted far longer than the relationship it was a product of.

      In an effort to be a somewhat accommodating host, James pulls himself out of the bed to lead the way, causing Q to ask, “Do you always wander around your flat stark naked, or am I just lucky?”

      “You weren’t complaining about the view yesterday,” he points out, reaching the kitchen and rifling through his cupboards for the tea canister. It doesn’t take him long to find, seeing how he has very little food to begin with.

      He doesn’t so much present the canister to the other man as have it snatched away, since Q apparently doesn’t trust him with as difficult a task as preparing tea. “Who says I am complaining about the view? I simply-” James doubts that anything is simple when it comes to Q, but he’ll never find out exactly what because Q has finished rummaging through his belongings only to discover that he doesn’t have a kettle. “Are you _completely_ uncivilized? What kind of barbarian lacks something as fundamental as a tea-”

      The kind who will cut off a rant via a kiss, apparently. He smiles when Q’s squawk of outrage tickles against his lips, although he doesn’t have long to be smug when the tea kettle drops to the floor with a loud clang, spilling its contents on the ground. It’ll be a terrible pain to clean up, that’s for sure, but Q proves to make it worth his while when the other man grabs hold of his head and pulls him even closer to deepen the kiss.

      It takes some time to find the willpower to pull away, and only then it is to ask, “How about you join me in the shower now?”

      “I told you before, I may have used all the hot water already.” But as if determined to send mixed signals, Q follows this up by hooking a leg around his waist in a rather compelling display of flexibility and strength built up from years of training.

      At this, a lesser man’s brain might have short-circuited nicely, but James manages to point out, “I’m sure we can find other ways to warm up the water.”

      “You are incorrigible.” The pleased smile suggests otherwise, although it doesn’t stop Q from reminding him, “I still need to get to the rink in an hour, and you still lack proper tea.”

      “If you get in the shower with me, I’ll buy you any tea you want.”

      “Any tea?”

      It’s bloody _tea_ , how bad can it be? “Of course,” he promises.

* * *

      “ _How much?!_ ”

      “Stop your whining, you are being rude,” Q says, even as he flashes the largest smile James has ever seen at the hostess. It hardly matters what James is doing; she clearly has eyes only for Q, who has already signed autographs for her and several other staff members, who are bustling about getting him his tea that, apparently, costs _180 quid per pot_. “You did say any tea I wanted.”

      “But-” he sputters. When he had made the offer, it was based on his prior experience where Q had taken him up on his dinner offer by choosing that nice but relatively inexpensive Indian place. He had assumed from said experience that Q was a reasonable human being, but apparently reasonableness went out the window when it came to tea. Or for anyone else, for that matter, seeing how Q had somehow managed to convince the staff to sell him the ridiculously expensive tea _to go_.

      Q lets out a happy sigh as the tea is placed in his hands, and he cradles it with as much (or perhaps more) care as would be given to a small child. “Be a dear and pay the bill, will you?” he says as he waltzes out, leaving James with a large bill and a soon to be very empty wallet.

* * *

      The rink is empty when they arrive. James settles down in the stands with his laptop while Q goes to change and stretch; he had generously offered to assist the figure skater in warming up, but had been coolly rebuffed. By the time Q emerges and steps onto the ice, James is freezing and the rink still eerily silent, prompting him to ask, “Is this normal, you having the ice to yourself?”

      “My coach has an arrangement with the owner,” Q replies, as he does lazy loops around the ice. “I get the ice to myself a few times a week, and more so the farther we get into the competitive season.”

      “And how did he manage that?”

      “Blackmail.” James honestly cannot tell if Q is joking or not with that, but there’s no doubting the seriousness of his next words. “Bond, I already told you that I will not be interviewed for a story.”

      “Why not?” he asks. “Even Moneypenny seems to think that you should give an interview or two. Which makes sense; people will start thinking that you have something to hide, the more you resist doing an interview.”

      Q stops mid-circle, peering over in his general direction. “Since when does valuing one’s privacy automatically mean that there is something to hide? Not everything needs to be announced to the entire world.”       Judging from Q’s tone, it is safe to assume that the figure skater is not the type to post a picture of his every meal on Facebook then. “Besides, figure skating is in part a performance, which includes convincing your audience that you are the character that you’re portraying. But if they already know everything about you, and cannot see anything except you, then how are they to believe the story that you are trying to tell them?”

      The explanation certainly makes sense, considering how based on his – admittedly short – acquaintance with Q, the younger man has been refreshingly open and straightforward. He very much doubts, however, that this is an explanation Mansfield would be satisfied with if he should return to the office with no story.  Still, he knows better than to push at this point, so instead he tries to change the topic to something that seems relatively non-personal but useful enough should he need to give his editor-in-chief something. “What story are you trying to tell with your programs this year?”

      No response is immediately forthcoming, as Q instead starts up again with his languid glide across the ice, considering what to say next. “Do you really care about that?”

      He wonders if Q is particularly insightful or if he is just that transparent because Q is correct; he doesn’t particularly care. That question is about what Q does, not who Q _is_ , and he is far more interested in the latter point than the former. But there is still something that he has been wondering about since the previous night, prompting him to ask, “Why do you still do it, if you hate the scoring system so much?”

      “Because I love skating,” Q replies, without hesitation. “The scoring system is just about winning, and you do not need to win in order to love something. Surely you did not become a reporter in order to win a Pulitzer?”

      “You’re assuming that I love reporting.”

      “Perhaps not reporting so much as exposing the bitter truths of humanity,” is the placid response, although it is betrayed by Q’s small smile. “I have read your articles, after all.”

      “I just write what I think people ought to know.”

      “Even if they don’t want to?”

      “It should never be about what people want,” James replies. “When the stories focus only on what people want to know, you lose any journalistic integrity.”

      “And journalistic integrity is that important to you?” Q is picking up speed, but still somehow manages to maintain eye contact with him. “What does that mean for us?”

      “It doesn’t mean anything,” he answers shortly. Q blinks, clearly not having expected that answer, but before he can be peppered with any more questions he continues, “This isn’t for a story. As I said, I didn’t ask you to dinner for the paper; I asked for myself. Until you tell me something is on-the-record, this is just between us.”

      “Why?” Q asks. “What do you get out of this, if not a story?”

      “Because,” he starts, but stops because he isn’t sure what to say. James wonders if Q is being serious, if he really does not understand how damn attractive he is with his ridiculously floppy hair and bright green eyes, and a passion for figure skating despite how it had let him down. But he doesn’t seem like the type to go fishing for compliments, and besides, there’s a sincerity in the question, an open wonder that reminds him of the previous night, when he’d complimented him the previous night. It’s such a contrast to the way Q unashamedly acts on his wants, including the prior night when he’d happily allowed James to explore his body. Still, he knows that some things are easier to do in the dark than in the light of day, although he has to wonder why nobody else before him has openly admired Q after seeing what he has, and suddenly, he knows exactly how to respond. “Because when you skate, I can’t stop watching you.”

* * *

      It’s hard to hold a conversation with someone who is practicing, although they manage a bit. As Q runs through his moves, he tells James a little bit about each one, explaining the technical difficulty of the jumps (toe loop, salchow, loop, flip, lutz, axel) and the drive for quad jumps. The most difficult quad Q does is the loop, although others have apparently landed a quad lutz (“Any interest in trying a quad axel?” “Bond, a little realism is in order.”). To his surprise, Q enjoys the jumps even when he complains about the focus on them, explaining, “It’s the only time I enjoy flying.”

      “You don’t like flying?”

      “Before I started competing, I avoided airplanes like the plague.” Q grimaces, “Although considering how dirty they are, they are more or less comparable.”

      James swallows his chuckle when Q glares at him, and he forces himself to look as serious as possible. “You know that flying is one of the safest modes of transportation, right?”

      “You say that as if logic had anything to do with fear,” Q grumbles. “All I know is that when I am on a plane, I put my life in someone else’s hands, whereas when I jump, at least I have nobody else to blame when I fall on my arse.”

      “Do you fall often?” Because so far Q has been a damn machine, completing each jump without fail.

      “You should have seen me when I first started trying the quad salchow. My arse was on the ice more often than my feet were.”

      “It’s a shame I wasn’t there. I would have kissed it all better.”

      “Incorrigible,” he declares. “Utterly incorrigible.”

      The number of revolutions is not the only difficulty factor. Q also does a ‘Tano lutz,’ where he throws his arm up while completing the triple jump. Even James, with next to no background information on figure skating, doesn’t need to ask why that is difficult. With a lesser person, it might have looked silly, but Q manages to infuse the move with his usual elegance.

      As impressive as the jumps are though, James finds that his favorite move is (no, not the spread eagle, although he would be more than happy to have Q demonstrate his expertise in that particular move _off_ the ice) the footwork sequences. Q never explains that move, but there’s nothing that needs to be said. Steps that barely seem possible on solid earth are heightened on the ice as Q practically dances from one end of the rink to the other. The complexity is staggering – one false move, one misplaced toe pick and the entire thing could come crashing down, but Q never slows, never falters. And when he finishes, there’s not so much satisfaction as a _challenge_ in his bright eyes, and James has always had a weakness for such open defiance.

      “You’re quite good at this,” he says when Q finishes.

      “Only quite good?” Q replies, tone teasing but still a bit breathless. It feels like no time has passed, given how transfixed he has been by the figure skater, when in fact it is well past noon. He has no idea how Q is still able to stay on his feet as he makes his way off the ice. “Perhaps you should come back tomorrow, so I can try to impress you some more.”

      James is there to meet him when he steps onto solid ground, standing over him as he unlaces the skates. “And in the meantime?”

      “You are welcome to take me to dinner if you like.”

      “How generous.” It’s not a yes, but they both know what he means. There’s only one question left then. “Your place or mine?”

* * *

      They end up at James’s again that night, and the next night as well. By that point, it’s clear that they’ve fallen into a pattern, with James taking Q to the rink for practice, during which James watches and Q dazzles. There’s less to explain as the week passes, and more often than not, Q just skates while James plays spectator, mesmerized in a way that no sport has ever moved him. He’s still not convinced that figure skating is a sport but he knows, without a doubt, that when it comes to Q, it is nothing less than spectacular.

      It’s not entirely one-sided, of course. Evenings are his turn to shine, as he tells the figure skater about his past investigations and stories over dinner. Q asks him questions from time to time, but mostly focuses on eating the equivalent of a small baby whale.

      James, being a gentleman, does not comment or stare, but does do his part to help Q burn a few of those calories via their nighttime activities.

      Right now, Q is curled up in his arms, lanky body clad only in one of James’s shirts and snoring gently (not that Q believes it when he teases him for it). And as James himself starts to drift to sleep, he finds himself thinking that this assignment may be the best thing that has ever happened to him, whether or not he gets a story out of it.

* * *

      As always, Q wakes up before him, but now actually has the decency to wait for him this time around. James is a bit surprised by the fact that Q is indulging him, allowing them an exceptionally long and highly satisfactory shower, until Q explains over breakfast (and tea, which Q had insisted on buying before returning to his flat the second night), “My coach is flying back this morning, so we agreed on an afternoon practice. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

      “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were upset about my stealing your practice schedule.”

      “I am not nearly as upset as you will be when Eve gets her hands on you.”

      “She should have known better than to leave me in her office with it.”

      Q sighs, now all too used to James’s apparent lack of common courtesy. “You do realize she was calling security to escort you out.”

      “Exactly,” he replies. “If she didn’t want me to steal it, she should have stuck around.”

      Rather than try to respond, the figure skater just rolls his eyes and sips his tea. James takes another bite of dry toast, before asking, “So I’m finally going to have a chance to meet the coach who will hate me?”

      “Not so much as ‘will,’ as already _does_.” The grin on Q’s face is so intoxicating that it should be a banned substance. “He hates just about anything that distracts me from figure skating.”

      “Are you saying that I distract you?”

      Q shakes his head, “Do try not to let it get to your head.”

      It’s not a denial. “If it makes you feel better, you’ve been distracting me from my job too,” he points out. “I’m probably going to be fired soon.”

      “I thought I was your job?” And while Q’s tone is perfectly innocent, James knows the question is deserved. It’s not like he hasn’t done this before, charming people into giving him stories that he never would have got otherwise. And the other man knows it, even if he tries to edit out some of those details during their evening discussions. Q isn’t stupid, after all, and James would be shocked if the figure skater hadn’t done some research of his own before James had shown up at the rink that very first day. But as much of a manipulative bastard that he is, he would never stoop to use Q in that way.

      It’s easy to think those things, but difficult to put into words. Rather than try, James changes the topic, asking, “Since your coach will be there, does this mean I’ll get to see you do a full run through of your program?”

      The other man looks a little bit surprised. “I didn’t think you would be interested in that.”

      “Aren’t you the one who keeps saying that figure skating is about a complete performance, not just the ability to do a few difficult moves?” He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of that fetching shade of pink Q gets when James flatters him. “I do listen, you know.”

      “Yes, well….” But there’s not much more to say than that, forcing Q to settle for pushing his glasses up as he tries to think of something not completely embarrassing to say.

      James decides to take mercy. “I don’t even know what music you’re using.”

      The words are barely out of his mouth as Q immediately goes for his phone, eyes alit with excitement as they always do when he gets the chance to talk about his primary passion. “Well, for the short program, I found this music when I watched…” his voice trails off and the pink turns to a distinct red, although he tries to cover for it by focusing on his phone as he scrolls through his music. James files this incident away as things to “investigate” at a later time, preferably when he has Q spread open and begging for release. “Never mind. All you need to know is that the music is called Samarkand Overture, and it goes like this.”

      Exactly on cue, the music starts to play. His eyebrows raise and he murmurs, “Impressive.” And it is. James can immediately see the appeal of it; from the very start it is a dramatic piece, only letting up in its intensity during a violin interlude that serves less as a breather and more as a build-up for the dramatic finale. It is the type of music that invites… no, perhaps _demands_ attention, and James is more than certain that Q is up to the task of a performance that is worthy of such music. And yet there’s something about it that doesn’t quite feel like the person he has come to know, that just doesn’t feel quite… right.

      Whether or not that discomfit shows up on his face, it doesn’t matter as Q still has all of his attention on his phone as he rambles on, “They recently changed the rules to allow vocal music in competition, and quite a few skaters have been enjoying that. Truthfully I think it is a sign of desperation from the ISU, but they hardly care for my opinion. It is not as if you need to use a vocal piece to connect with an audience; it does too much of the work that the skater should be doing, I feel, but-”

      James knows he has to speak up if he wants to get a word in edgewise when Q is like this. “And what about your free skate music?”

      Q doesn’t seem at all offended by the interruption, pivoting neatly to the slight tangent. “It is something I have been wanting to skate to ever since I first heard it,” Q explains as he goes through his music. “I am still not sure it works though; it is a beautiful piece, but it does not immediately suggest a story or character to shape a program around. Every time I skate to it, it still feels like the music is just in the background, not an integral part of the performance. My coach says I am overthinking it, but-”

      He stops as the music plays, but it’s not coming from his phone; it’s coming from James’s. They both stare at his cell in confusion, before reality snaps back and James quickly reaches for the phone to turn it over. He immediately wishes he hadn’t when he sees Mansfield’s scowling face glaring up at him.

      “Well, that’s vexing,” Q says helpfully.

      “I should probably take this.” That is probably an understatement, given how quickly James is scurrying away. Needless to say, he is not the type to scurry, but Mansfield seems to inspire the best in her employees as he rushes to his bedroom, shutting the door before he picks up.

      He doesn’t even get a chance to say hello when Mansfield says curtly, “My office. _Now_.”

      She doesn’t slam down the phone. She really doesn’t need to.

      Q doesn’t even look up from his phone when he returns, instead saying sympathetically, “I suppose you must be off now.”

      “Indeed.”

      “What are you going to tell her?”

      “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

      The figure skater finally looks at him, with a soft, almost rueful smile. “I’m sure.” he says, although his tone belies how much confidence he has. “Perhaps I should get going as well.”

      “You don’t need-” he starts to say, but Q stands, effectively off any protests.

      “It’s fine,” Q says, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “Assuming your editor-in-chief does not completely eviscerate you, you know where to find me this afternoon.”

      He does. But as he watches Q put the dishes in the sink before heading to the bedroom, he can’t shake the feeling that things are about to change, and almost certainly not for the better.

* * *

      In every job, but perhaps in reporting especially, there comes a time when the most important thing in the world is instinct. It’s something that not everyone has, and that no amount of training can instill. James has a lot of instincts, typically to pick up on a lie or – even more importantly – know when someone was not telling the whole truth.

      In this instance, however, James’s instincts seem to be a bit off because he has clearly underestimated Mansfield’s fury.

      “Bond, what the _hell_ were you thinking?” The words may be spoken calmly, but only because the editor-in-chief has mastered the art of icy _rage_.

      “I can explain,” he replies. This, of course, is an utter lie because he has nothing to say. How to explain that he’s decided to respect the privacy interests of the person he was assigned to write a story about, especially when he has never cared for that sort of thing in the past? As he had told Q, journalism should never be about what people want to be told; it’s about what they should know. But in this case, applying that principle… James thinks Q may be right. People may think they want to know everything they can about Q, but is that what they truly want? Would that mean that they would never be able to see the figure skater in the same way, that his performances would lose a touch of what makes him special to watch? James has no idea, and how could he? All he knows about Q is Q himself, not the characters he portrays in his performances. This past week of watching the man, he’s never seen him do a full routine, never seen him inhabit the skin of someone else. Instead, he has only seen the real person, and the thought of exposing that person to the rest of the world simply seems… wrong.

      As if reading his mind, Mansfield snaps, “I don’t think you can explain this mess.” And before James can fully process what she is saying, she is turning her laptop to face him with such force that it’s amazing she doesn’t break it.

      Then he sees the photo on the screen, and he wishes that the screen had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

      “Bond, I told you to get me a story,” she says as she jabs at the headline above the photo, although all he can see is the picture of him and Q in his bed, their actions as clear as the curve of Q’s naked arse. “You weren’t supposed to _be_ the damn story.”


	3. Gala of Champions

      “Fuck,” he rasps.

      “Yes, I can see that,” Mansfield replies unsympathetically. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

      Logically, he knows that what she wants is not so much an apology but an explanation for why she shouldn’t fire him on the spot. Reasonably, he knows that he should do what she wants him to do in order to keep his job. Realistically, he knows that no amount of bullshitting can ever explain what is on the screen, so he should just skip the explaining and go straight to begging.

      But logic, rationality, and realism were never words used to describe James Bond. That is why all he can see is Q, exposed to the world in a way more horrifying than the figure skater could probably ever have imagined, and who is almost certain to think that he had something to do with it.

      “ _Fuck_ ,” he says again, turning on his heel. It’s the last thing Mansfield would ever have expected, which is probably why she is too shocked to say anything before the door has closed behind him and he’s halfway down the hall.

* * *

      James makes it to the rink in record time, somehow managing to avoid being arrested in the process despite violating a dozen and a half traffic laws. He doesn’t care though, barely taking the time to lock the door to his car as he rushes through the entrance.

      A part of him still can’t believe this is happening. Another part of him just can’t believe this hadn’t happened sooner. Because really, he’s spent all of his career (and most of his life) tempting fate, inserting himself into the lives of powerful people in order to expose the ugly truths that they wanted to keep hidden from adoring fans. And not only that, but he had enjoyed it too, very much so, charming his way into parties and bedrooms in order to get what he wants and reveling in his success. So maybe it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with him, which is fine – he could have accepted that responsibility. Except this isn’t about him; this is about Q and the public’s obsession with him, and the gross invasion of privacy that the figure skater had been trying to avoid until James had got involved.

      Even now, James can see a reporter standing in the hallway, no doubt trying to get a quote or an embarrassing story from Q, which is fine by James now because he very much wants to hit someone right now, and this bastard with what his bleach-blond dyed hair would do nicely. But before he can, the unfamiliar figure turns to face him with a smile.

      “James Bond, I presume.” The smile is wide and the words, lightened by a Spanish flair, almost welcoming, but there’s no mistaking the pure _hatred_ the man is directing at him.

      He doesn’t have time for this. “Get out of my way.”

      The man tsks, “Has no one ever taught you manners? For shame. Besides, I hardly think you’re in a position to be ordering anyone around, given that rather… _embarrassing_ story of you in all the tabloids. Does your editor know what you’ve been up to?”

      Again, the man’s tone is deceptively pleasant, hiding only the pure venom behind each of the pointed questions. Whoever he is, he clearly hates James very much, which goes quite a ways to helping figure out exactly who he is. “You’re Q’s coach.”

      “Oh, very good.” It’s clear from his tone that he is anything but impressed by James’s revelation. “Raoul Silva, at your service. And now that we have established that I have reason to be here, the question remains what _you’re_ doing here.”

      Q clearly had not been joking when he’d said that his coach would hate James. Still, he has never been in the habit of letting himself be intimidated, even if this man is clearly dangerous. “I need to talk to Q.”

      “Do you now?” Silva asks. “My, you are a selfish man. Haven’t you ruined that poor boy’s life enough already?”

      James knows better than to flinch at the question; any sign of weakness and Silva will tear him apart. “I didn’t have anything to do with that story.”

      “Didn’t you?” Silva’s expression is a textbook example of false surprise. “That was you in the picture, was it not?”

      “Yes, but-”

      “Then you had something to do with it,” the other man cuts off harshly, no longer bothering with false pretense. “I’m amazed you were shameless enough to show up here, after everything you’ve done. What on earth makes you think that Q would ever want to speak to you again?”

      Silva may have a point, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to concede anything. “Why don’t we let him decide that for himself?”

      The man laughs harshly. “You do really have an inflated sense of yourself, don’t you? Why would he want to see you? You, an aging wreck of a man, a professional in a dying profession, incapable of accepting how obsolete you have become?” Silva’s eyes narrow as he looks over him, considering James before visibly deeming him worthless. “You, James Bond, were nothing but a distraction to him, and you delude yourself if you think you were anything more. Unfortunately for you, the distraction has become more problematic than you are worth, especially when Q has something to accomplish while you can only bask in past glories, knowing that you have nothing to offer in the future. And perhaps you do not wish to accept it, but that is what I am here for, to make sure that you keep as far away as possible from Q.”

      James is struggling for a way to respond, a way to deny that he too had been wondering what Q had seen in him, avoiding the question by focusing solely on the present. But there is no way of avoiding now as Silva pulls out one of the tabloids and throws it at his feet, the picture of him and Q staring accusingly up at him.

      Sensing that victory is near, Silva’s voice is silky, almost seductive in the way it draws him in with the sole purpose of destroying him. “I think we both know that what is best for Q is for you to move on. He doesn’t need you dragging him down any further than you’ve already brought him.”

* * *

      “I thought I’d find you here.”

      He doesn’t look up from his drink. “Tanner.”

      “Bond.” The managing editor slides onto the stool next to him. “It’s been two weeks.”

      “What of it?” he responds. “Don’t tell me that Mansfield is worried.” Frankly, he has no idea why Tanner is even looking for him; after this debacle, he doubts he has a job anymore.

      “She’s not,” Tanner assures him. “Although you’re not actually in as much trouble as you should be. Boothroyd’s agent called a while back; she told Mansfield that Boothroyd doesn’t want you to lose your job over what happened. They didn’t even make any threats to sue or keeping the paper from attending events.”

      “Not like it matters,” he points out. “He wasn’t going to be giving any interviews anyway.”

      Tanner shrugs. “Nevertheless, it saved your hide.”

      James slowly turns to look at the other man, eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?” It’s as if Tanner thinks that he’d be pleased to hear that, that Q doesn’t want retribution. More likely that Q simply doesn’t want to be the cause of any more drama, having had more than his fill of unwanted attention after days of the picture circulating even the more proper newspapers (tastefully censored, of course). There might have been more of it too, if not for America’s president doing something so terminally stupid that the papers had actually dropped the sex scandal in favor of howling over the coming apocalypse.

      “I’m just a bit surprised, is all.”

      “That I still have a job?” He always did suspect there was an office pool on how long it would take before Mansfield fired him or just tossed him out the highest window.

      “That you’re here, rather than there.” Tanner flags down the bartender, pulling out his wallet. “A fiver to change the channel?”

      Before James can protest that he was actually enjoying the hysterical doomsday predictions, the transaction is complete and the screen now shows the last thing he wants to see, namely men wearing too many sequins as they practice on the ice. If Tanner notices his dismay, he certainly doesn’t acknowledge it as he sits back as best he can without a seatback, asking mildly, “He’s about to compete, isn’t he?”

      James wishes he was strong enough to look away from the screen, but he’s not. His focus is entirely on Q, even when the camera is not; even amongst all the other skaters, Q stands out with his messy mop of black hair. Still, he’s not about to let Tanner win whatever game they’re playing. “You timed that perfectly. How many times did you practice it?”

      Tanner chooses to ignore the sour remark, proving that he is either a better man than James or just immune after years of dealing with the fine cynicism that journalists tended to perfect. “You aren’t the least bit interested?”

      “Why would I be?”

      “Why else would you be here?”

      He decides not to point out that he wouldn’t even be watching Q right now if not for Tanner interrupting his drinking. “Maybe I’m here to get away from you and Mansfield.”

      Tanner brushes off that explanation easily. “It’s not like we’ve been trying to get you back to the office. In fact, I’d suggest you stay away a bit longer. Mansfield may not be firing you yet, but that doesn’t mean she wants to see your face.”

      “The feeling’s mutual.” On the screen, the practice is ending and most of the skaters are getting off, with one glaring exception. Tanner really did time it perfectly as Q skates over to Silva to exchange private words. Instead of commenting on how the coach’s bleach-blond hair is as hideous on-screen as it was in-person, James asks, “Seriously, Tanner. What are you doing here?”

      “Watching Britain’s best shot at a figure skating world championships in two decades,” Tanner replies calmly, as if he’s ever given a toss for the event. Luckily for the managing editor, James is transfixed by the screen as Q finishes his conversation and heads back to the center of the ice. It’s achingly familiar, the way he doesn’t go directly to his destination but instead glides in small, lazy circles with his eyes closed, clearly visualizing what is to come next before he stops perfectly at the center of the ice. Then he takes in a deep breath and strikes his opening pose, waiting for the music to start.

      He wants to speak, to tell someone to turn off the damn screen. He can’t. And just like the first time he heard it, the music comes in a flurry of instruments, a cacophony of sound that should have been chaos but instead came together in perfect harmony. In the middle of it all is Q, who springs to life, grabbing everyone’s attention, especially James’s. As he watches almost hungrily, he doesn’t hear the inane chatter of the commentators, focused as he is on Q and the music. It’s clear that he’s watching something completely different from what he had seen in practice, as Q inhabits so seamlessly inhabits a character that James has never been introduced to, to the point that he almost fails to recognize the person on the ice despite the week they spent together. Each move flows into the next, a spread eagle becoming an enormous quad jump, careful edging disappearing into a spin. It’s not a checklist of elements to be done but a continuous performance, every move adding not just to the point total but the story being told.

      But then Q jumps, his final one, and it all comes crashing back to reality as he comes down awkwardly, his landing foot curving awkwardly, forcing his left foot to scrape the ice to keep from falling.

      “Ooh, he double-footed that jump!” The commentator’s disappointment is too loud for even James to ignore. “That’s a mistake we don’t see often from him.”

      “Indeed,” the other commentator says. “He’s lucky he was able to save that jump at all. A fall would have been a huge deduction, and with Chan still to skate, he’s going to need all the points he can get if he wants to bring home Britain’s first gold-”

      Her words are cut off by the scrape of the chair as James gets to his feet, eyes still glued to the screen. By all appearances Q looks as calm as always as he flies through a straight line footwork sequence, but James can see the tension in each movement, making it just a little less elegant than he knows Q is capable of. The figure skater is hardly panicking, but James knows he can be better, and just like the first time he had met Q, he knows what he has to do.

      “Tell Mansfield I won’t be back at the office until next Monday,” he tells Tanner.

      “Bring me back a souvenir,” Tanner replies with a languid salute. “My daughter loves figure skating.”

* * *

      When James arrives at the arena, he has neither tickets nor press credentials. He does, however, have quite some skills in sneaking into (and out of) places, and he manages to get into the rink just as the second to last group of skaters are warming up. Q, despite his mistake, is still in the top group and will be going last, which means there should be plenty of time for James to speak to him.

      It also means there is plenty of time for someone to find him first.

      “Bond.” Moneypenny’s smile may not be as dangerous as Silva’s, but it is certainly very sharp. “Did you come all this way to apologize for breaking into my office?”

      “Technically, I didn’t break in so much as break out,” he points out with a smile, but now is not the time for flirting. “I need to speak to Q.”

      “Silva did mention that you had shown up the day the story broke.” Moneypenny darkens at the memory of that. “But I assumed you didn’t want to talk to him that badly since you never showed up again.”

      “I was trying not to be a distraction.”

      “So you decide to show up right before one of the most important performances of his life?” she asks skeptically. “That is an interesting way of not being a distraction. It sounds more like you’re just trying to assuage your own guilt.”

      He isn’t sure he can deny that, so he tries something that he very rarely does. “Please, Moneypenny.”

      She eyes him for a long while, her expression impressively unreadable, before she abruptly sighs. “You’re lucky that I care for Q not just as a client, but as a friend. I’ll see if he wants to talk to you.”

      “Thank-”

      His words are cut off by her grabbing him by the throat. “Just know,” she hisses, “that if you ever hurt him again, you will not last the day.”

      It’d be easy to dislodge her, but because he is a gentleman (and possibly also because he deserves it), he nods obediently. She gives him another wide smile and a friendly squeeze before letting go, leaving him to regain his composure and consider what he will say if Q is willing to see him. The problem is that he’s no closer to figuring that out than when he had first got on the plane, and he’s still not sure that Silva and Moneypenny aren’t right.

      It’s not that he doubts what he is doing. James has never been prone to self-doubt (the opposite, really), and for good reason. Reporters who spend too much time doubting themselves rarely last long in the field, and James has learned to trust his instincts. But even he has to admit that there is something ridiculous about this, his rushing here like a lovesick teenager to do… to do what, exactly? Some type of grand gesture, right when Q should be concentrating on the competition? He’s spent the last two weeks trying not to be the distraction that Silva had accused him of being, telling himself that there would be time later to work things out with the figure skater, to explain to him that he had nothing to do with that picture or the story. He’s not sure who does yet, but he’s getting close to figuring it out, and when he does he’ll make whoever it is suffer. That was the romantic gesture he had been planning on, not this, but when he saw Q on that screen, stumbling in the program, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

      “Well,” a familiar voice says, which sends his blood racing. “It is about bloody time you showed up.”

      He turns to look at Q, who stands with hands on hips, dark red lips pursed. It’s an expression that he’s seen many a time on Mansfield’s face, that deep exasperation, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint to not walk over and kiss the annoyance off his face.

      “Q,” he replies. “You look nice.”

      “Only nice?” Q asks, eyebrow raised. Because Q most certainly looks more than nice, with a skintight outfit that leaves nothing to imagination. Compared to some of the other outfits he had seen the previous day, which resembled peacocks more than people, this one is quite plain, the black material covering Q from fingertip to toe pick, with the exception of a somewhat lower neckline that reveals smooth skin that James had spent a week getting to know very well indeed. From the shoulder to his hip, the black opens up to a bright blue, speckled with flecks of white that is meant to give the feeling of the night sky.

      Once again, there are no sequins in sight. James likes it very much, although, “It’s different.” Different from what he’s used to, the plain white tops and black tights, or the oversized shirt that Q had stolen from his closet. But different isn’t necessarily worse, as Q has demonstrated time and time again.

      “Different,” Q repeats, with that little quirk of the lip that James so enjoys. “You came all this way to tell me that my outfit is different, did you?”

      “I came to apologize.”

      Q looks honestly surprised. “Apologize? Whatever for? Unless you mean the atrocious lack of security on your laptop, which is how they got the picture in the first place.”

      James blinks, taken aback. “You knew?”

      “Hard as it may be for you to believe, I have interests outside of figure skating,” Q says with no little sarcasm. “One of those interests being computers.” At James’s obvious surprise, Q continues a bit defensively, “Figure skating is an expensive sport. Glitter does not pay for itself, I’ll have you know.”

      “So you…” James tries to process this new information. “Did you hack my computer?”

      “Only because someone else already did it,” Q replies. “I assume you figured that part already?”

      “Yes.” He replies, although he’s still having trouble comprehending what is happening. “Are you telling me that you’re a criminal in your free time?”

      “Certainly not. I just program security protocols for major companies during the off-season.” Q pauses, before adding innocently, “Theoretically speaking, if I _wanted_ to gain unauthorized access into someone’s computer to figure out why they were using your laptop’s webcam to take pictures of us, I suppose I could do it. And also theoretically speaking, if that person was to then discover that his entire life savings has been donated to charities which help children in the arts, I am certain that said hypothetical person will be ever so grateful.”

      “I see,” he says slowly. “And does this person have a name? Hypothetically speaking.”

      “Ernst Blofeld,” Q replies. “What a ridiculous name. He would have been better off sticking with Franz Oberhauser.”

      His mouth nearly falls open in shock, causing Q to ask in mock surprise, “Oh my, does this completely hypothetical name remind you of someone?”

      Franz Oberhauser? Fuck, that’s a name he hasn’t heard in quite some time, not since Hannes Oberhauser’s funeral all those years back. They had never been close, and James had always sensed that the man had resented him, but this? This seemed to be going a bit far to deal with a childhood rivalry, but Franz had always been an over-the-top bastard, even when they were kids. In a different universe, the man would probably have created a secret criminal organization dedicated to destroying James’s life; by comparison, humiliating him via secret sex photos is just plain petty.

      Or at least, it would have been if it had just been him. It hadn’t. Q had been caught up in it as well, collateral damage for James’s past.

      “I’m sorry you got involved in this,” he says, the words utterly inadequate. “I didn’t mean to put you through that.”

      “Well, you cannot help it that you have a rare talent for irritating powerful people,” Q says with a shrug and a small smile. But then the smile fades, leaving a sort of emptiness in its wake, as the figure skater continues with a forced indifference, “That is why there is nothing you need to apologize for. And if that is all you have to say, you can be on your way now, no harm done.”

      Q starts to walk by him, but James is not about to let that happen. He reaches out to take him by the arm, “What happens if I don’t want to leave?”

      “Why would you want to stay? It’s just figure skating.”

      “I don’t care about the figure skating,” he replies. He never has. “I came here for you. That has never changed.”

      “Then why didn’t you come sooner?” Q snaps, although he doesn’t pull away.

      “I did,” he points out. “That’s when I met your coach.”

      Q laughs bitterly. “He mentioned that you had stopped by. But that doesn’t explain where you’ve been for the past two weeks.”

      Actually, most people would say that is a perfectly reasonable explanation, considering how Q was probably understating how much Silva was going to hate him. But it’s not like James hasn’t dealt with people loathing him before, and in any case, the coach’s wrath is not nearly as terrifying as the thought of losing Q. Sardonic, passionate, _brilliant_ Q, who he wants to know everything about because clearly there is so much more to learn about the man, to the point that he isn’t sure there is enough time in the world to be with him. But that isn’t going to stop him from trying, especially now.

      “I should have been here sooner,” he says finally. It’s the only thing he can think of to say because any other attempt at a justification would have been an excuse. “I just didn’t realize it until I saw your short program.”

      “Why, because I made a mistake?” Q stares at him, incredulous. “Bond, please do not suggest that you think I messed up because of you.”

      “I didn’t want to be any more of a distraction to you, and _fuck_ -” His comment is cut off when Q punches him in the arm, with far more strength that is needed to get his attention.

      “James Bond, you and your ego are completely impossible,” the figure skater snaps, throwing up his free arm. “I messed up because even I am not immune to the pressure. The first gold medal for Britain in two decades? Expectations of winning every title up to and including Olympics? Honestly, the only reason why I was able to ignore it for as long as I did was because I had _you_ to distract me with your stubborn refusal to accept figure skating as a sport.”

      “So I _was_ a distraction,” he replies, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips now.

      “Are you saying I was not just a distraction for you?” Q counters.

      “You were never a distraction.” All humor is gone, as James stares down at Q. “You were never just a distraction or a story. I wanted… _want_ to be with you, and you know it.”

      Just the barest shiver runs through Q at that, but he doesn’t dare look away. “Well,” he whispers. “You were a distraction for me. The best distraction I could ever have. Because when you watched me, I was able to skate for someone who appreciated my skating for what it was, not because I was supposed to win a medal. It was… important, a reminder of why I started skating in the first place.” Q’s tone is now almost wistful. “I was never in it for fame or fortune. I do it because figure skating can be the most beautiful thing out there, if properly done. And it was starting to feel like no one else saw that, what with the focus on winning, not until you came along. Although it was admittedly a bit strange coming from you, seeing how you make a living over writing about who is winning and who is not. I can only assume it is because you still do not think of figure skating as a sport?”

      It’s a rhetorical question, but James has to answer anyway. “It’s not.”

      The figure skater glowers at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I will prove you wrong about that someday.”

      He doubts it well enough, although he has no intention of dissuading Q. “You’re welcome to try.”

      Q looks rather like he wants to hit him, or launch into another five-minute rant of the competitive nature of figure skating. He does neither. Instead, Q takes in a deep breath and then pulls him down to kiss him hard. And while they have certainly kissed many times during their week together, this one is different. They’ve always had passion, but this one is almost _possessive_ , like Q fully intends on never letting him go. It’s a feeling he can relate to completely; James feels exactly the same way about the figure skater.

      It might not be the most eloquent of arguments. But James will be the first to say that it is very persuasive indeed.

* * *

      Moneypenny doesn’t even look up when he makes his way to her side. Across the rink, Silva is speaking to Q, although even the importance of this competition has not prevented the coach from noticing James’s presence and glaring daggers in his direction. James is almost surprised that he isn’t a smoldering ruin at this point, although it’s not for lack of trying on Silva’s part.

      “You know he’s going to hate you forever, right?” Moneypenny says, clearly also noticing the angry looks he has been getting.

      “Do I look like I care?”

      “Not at all. Everyone knows he's a possessive bastard. Besides, you only care about one person here,” she replies slyly. They fall into silence again as Q finishes with Silva and heads to the center of the ice, causing the audience to burst into loud applause and making conversation impossible. But as enthusiastic as they are, they immediately fall silent as Q gets in position, the focus of thousands of people on that single person.

      The music starts. Unlike his short program, with so many instruments fighting for attention, there is only the piano here, each note as crisp and clear as the moves that accompany them.

      “Chopin’s Polonaise No. 6,” Moneypenny explains, before letting out a small laugh. “He played the video game.”

      James has no idea what that means, but it doesn’t matter. As it always has been since the day Mansfield saddled him with this assignment, the only person that matters right now is Q. If he had been impressed with what he had seen on the screen just a few days back, it is nothing compared to now. Because there, he was watching another character, another _person_ , one as exquisite as Q but not quite him either. He remembers what Q said, when he worried that this program not being quite right because he’s not able to channel the character he is trying to portray. The truth, James thinks, is that this program doesn’t let Q hide behind a façade; instead, it is the closest Q has ever come to showing his true self to the rest of the world, the one that James had the audacity to fall in love with.

      And perhaps that is when it truly hits him, how much he loves Q. Because as beautiful as it is, the way the individual moves and steps come together to become something far greater than the sum of its parts, there’s a part of him that thinks that he would rather it be the two of them in that rink in London because Silva is right – he is a very selfish man. The whole world is getting to see the Q he has come to know so intimately, and rather than embrace that as he has in the past when he exposed powerful people to the world, he wants to take Q and keep him close, something all to himself.

      But selfish as he is, he knows that this is something that has to be shown to the world. Because what Q is doing – it’s not a sport, not really. Instead, in Q’s capable hands, it is an art, a transcendental moment that none who have the privilege of watching in person will ever forget.

 

 

      The free skate is twice as long as the short, but it seems to go by in a flash. James still can’t tell the difference between a toe loop and a lutz, but he knows that Q has executed every move perfectly. He also knows that the moment he will remember most is not the jumps and spins, dazzling as they are, but the moment when Q stops caring about it all – the judges, the scores, even the audience. The only thing that matters is the ice and that exhilarating feeling of flying, as Q leaves them all behind. But even as he does so, the pure joy he’s experiencing is utterly infectious, and it’s no wonder that by the time Q strikes his final pose, the last minute of the music has been overwhelmed by the deafening roar of the crowd.

      “Ladies and gentlemen,” Moneypenny whispers, her words barely audible, “your new world champion.”

      James can’t disagree; he knows it, the audience knows it, the whole world knows it. But as he watches Q breathe in and out into an absolutely brilliant smile, he rather believes that the title is the last thing Q cares about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I’m so sorry this story is a mess. ;-; So many thanks to Megaikemen for letting me write a story for the beautiful art!!
> 
> In addition, if you would like to hear the program music, the short program music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BMwxzD5iJ7k  
> The long program music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFlyKTyFfrs
> 
> And as promised, performances I highly recommend the following:  
> Michelle Kwan’s 2004 U.S. National Championship free skate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_J9Et5D1Nt8  
> Alexei Yagudin’s 2002 Olympic short program: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3UlVeNEBFKE  
> Xue Shen and Hongbo Zhao’s 2003 World Championship free skate (my personal favorite performance): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Kql3sf_crA  
> And of course, a classic British program – Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean’s 1984 Olympic free skate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KcCj0xfO3H8


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